


The Language (of you and I)

by Waywardwiz



Category: MASH (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-01
Updated: 2016-07-01
Packaged: 2018-07-19 10:13:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,642
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7357132
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Waywardwiz/pseuds/Waywardwiz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A short BJ/Hawkeye fic because I adore them as a couple so, so much and I have never written MASH fics before so I thought it was about time.</p><p>"Once he does come close to expressing what BJ does to him, how Hawk will never be able to shake him from his system because BJ is in his veins, in his blood and his mind and heart, always"</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Language (of you and I)

Hawkeye has always loved languages. He likes the complexity of grammar, the nuances of spoken words, the way syntax and parsing and meaning can cause faces to light up with interest, delight, passion, softness. He likes English with all its’ possibilities, all it’s ways to say the same things but with an endless amount of adjectives, likes how literary classics helped shape it into a thing of finesse and elegance. He likes Italian with its’ flourishes and spirited gestures, strong, passionate German and the sensual, fierce French. He once visited the Danish hospital ship Jutlandia, sent to South Korea with the purpose of providing humanitarian support to the allied forces. The reason for his and the other doctors (except for Charles who had been charged with management of the camp while they were gone) of MASH 4077’s visit was to observe how Jutlandia functioned as a medical unit and then to exchange knowledge with the nurses and doctors onboard. Danish as a language had been a source of fascination to him, it was sharp and complicated, a rush of vowels and unpronounced consonants and clashing of gentle an harsh. The staff had had a lot of fun making their American guests try out an especially demanding sentence, “rødgrød med fløde” which had let to a lot of frustration and fun as Hawkeye, BJ, Margaret and Potter attempted and failed at making the foreign noises.  In return the Danes had a hard time with the English “th-“ sound.

Most of all he likes Korean, the unfamiliar intonations, rise and fall of the cadence and intricate flow. He just hopes that he someday will get to hear it in another context than the ones with which the poor civilians use it – fear, despair, anxiety. Their sorrow gets to him, cause him heartbreak every day when they come into camp pleading for help, when he is elbow deep in their children at the operating table, when he sometimes wonder whether he is actually on the good side in this war (all these wounds on all these green boys could very well have been caused by American weapons). But he knows that he can never fully understand the despair of losing everything, of having to leave family members and homes behind to flee, hoping for a safer life, for refuge that won’t be found. He will never really know. His father is in Maine, in Crapapple Cove, with his little practice that he can go to every day without having to fear sniper fire or exploding mortars. Where he doesn’t have to be careful of every step he takes and where he can sleep peacefully at night knowing that he won’t wake up to screaming. Sometimes Hawkeye thinks he knows, though. Like the times when BJ leaves for Battalion Aid. He doesn’t sleep until his best friend is safely back at MASH in the Swamp with him. Then he allows himself to drift off to the comforting sounds of BJ’s even exhales or to the barely there chuckle of him sleepily reacting to some joke or story Hawkeye told to end a terrible day on a high note. When he reaches out from his cod, movement veiled by the darkness of night, and can almost reach BJ’s hand where it rests on his chest, Hawk finally feels fine.

But the language he likes the best is BJ’s. Not his slight Californian accent, smooth and rich and sonorous, though he gets pleasantly flushed when his best friend goes into full “the San Fran Golden Boy” mode, as Hawkeye likes to call him (this endearment always makes BJ roll his eyes and smile in mild exasperation). No, the language BJ speaks so fluently, the one that Hawkeye adores, is the one he makes with his body. His eyes when they shine with joy after a particular well executed scam, the fierceness when he fights for what he believes to be right, the tenderness with which he studies Hawk when they are alone together, when there is nothing in the way of them being close. His touch, long fingers and soft, caring pressure against Hawk’s heated skin, slender yet muscular legs tangling with Hawkeye’s own – Jesus, everything about BJ is long and slight to Hawkeye’s own lean stockiness –breath ghosting over Hawkeye’s face. BJ’s moans are deep, guttural sounds coming from all the way in the back of his throat and the words falling from his lips are pure sin as he gasps a jumbled mixture of Hawkeye’s name (like a prayer, like Hawkeye is the most special thing on earth, “Hawkeye, Hawk!”), swearwords (“shit, oh God, you feel so good”) and a hundred broken adjectives which he seems to be convinced that Hawkeye deserves and which flow over Hawk in crashing waves of warmth and sunlight and BJ is inside him and moving and it is so perfect (“you’re beautiful, I have never met anyone like you, Hawk, you are so amazing”).

And when he is lying on top of Hawk, a solid weight pining him down, the older doctor never feels trapped but rather so deeply cared for, so loved, that he is constantly rendered speechless, settling instead for groans and cries and clutching BJ’s shoulders and pulling at his hair to show the limitless extend of his affection. Once he does come close to expressing what BJ does to him, how Hawk will never be able to shake him from his system because BJ is in his veins, in his blood and his mind and heart, always. They are in Hawkeye’s cot, basking in the afterglow of amazing sex consisting of all languid, unhurried movements and sweet whispers, having taken their time because Charles is on R&R. And Hawk finally knows what to say. BJ is kissing him, soft little things on cheeks, his forehead, his lips and Hawkeye’s voice is hoarse when he says, “Beej?”  
“Yeah, Hawk?” BJ mutters with half lidded eyes, sounding so incredibly content that Hawkeye almost doesn’t want to disturb him, but he gathers his courage because BJ needs to know. So he says, hugging BJ’s middle a little tighter and burying his face against his chest; “I adore you”  
“You too” BJ says promptly, voice soft and relaxed, and he gathers Hawkeye even closer into his embrace.  
“No, no” his friend says, an almost desperate lilt to his voice, “you always say those things, and I never do”  
He looks up to see BJ’s forehead crease into a troubled frown, “that’s not true, Hawk. You say kind things all the time”

Hawkeye nods, “yes but I do that with everyone. All my friends. I need you to know that you mean so many things to me. It almost can’t be said”  
They have never talked about what would happen when they get home, when the war is over. Hawkeye has no false pretenses about their future. He knows that BJ loves Peg and Erin and he would blame himself forever if he destroyed their happiness. He could never be so selfish as to break up a family. Even if he is in love with his best friend. They never mention the word “love”. BJ knows that Hawkeye loves him, and Hawkeye knows that BJ loves him. All other words are fair game but “love” (“I love you”) is too real and they aren’t ready for that kind of truth. They never will be. And that is fine. Hawkeye tells himself that he is fine, tries to convince himself that this, what they have in Korea, is enough and will be enough.    
He continues, “I am... I am constantly amazed by the things you do and entranced by the things you say. You have done so much for me, so many things. You saved me and I can never pay you back. I’m so fortunate to have found you here, and I will... I’ll...”  
His words come to a grinding hall and doubt freezes his mind, leaving him blank. He is usually so good with words, but maybe that is because they never really mean anything, they’re jokes and defense mechanisms and superficial wittiness. Now they do, because his own language, his “Hawk language”, belongs to BJ and no one else.  
BJ waits, studying him with a patient smile, and he gives Hawkeye’s hand a little squeeze which gives him the courage to finish his sentence, “I’ll always carry you with me, Beej”

They are both quiet for a while. Hawkeye’s heart is thrumming in his chest and he supposes he should be more anxious than he is but his mind is strangely clear. That is the effect BJ has on him. BJ kisses his lips and when Hawk opens up to him BJ’s tongue tastes sweet and musky and Hawkeye isn’t sure whether it is BJ’s own taste or the scotch they stole from Charles’ footlocker but it is perfect. Then Hawk can feel BJ smiling against his mouth and his words are like a hum against him.  
BJ whispers, “how am I ever supposed to come after that?”  
That makes Hawk chuckle and he is relieved to finally be back on safe grounds. His jokes, although he never needs to protect himself against BJ, feels secure and comfortable which is why he says, “you can still do that without saying anything”  
BJ laughs in earnest, a sharp, lovely sound, and he plants another kiss on Hawkeye’s nose.  
“You’re right” he agrees. Then he flips them over in one smooth lunge and he is looming over Hawkeye, eyes dark with want, “I adore you too, Hawk”  
And as their skin connects again in the most satisfying way possible, Hawk buries his face in the crock of BJ’s neck and says, “I know”  
Because Hawkeye and BJ speak each other’s language well enough to say everything without saying anything all.


End file.
